


Given Not Taken

by hobbitdragon



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: AU - Ekons Can Feed Without Killing, AU - Mary Isn't Dead, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Vampires, Blood Drinking, Colleagues with Benefits, Consent, Dark Vision, First Time, M/M, Maybe turning into something more? you decide, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/pseuds/hobbitdragon
Summary: I wanted to explore the topic of consent in relation to vampirism. So here is a fic about Jonathan trying to be careful with his powers - and, of course, it's also about eroticized blood-drinking.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> CONTENT WARNING: if you're familiar with the actual game, this fic won't contain anything that shocks you. This fic does, however, contain brief descriptions of Sean's canonical history of abuse and his present cannibalism, as well as brief descriptions to canonical levels of violence.
> 
> Also, this fic takes place in an AU where Mary didn't find Jonathan's corpse in the mass grave and thus wasn't killed by him. While I love the game, I intensely dislike Mary's death and turning. So I've retconned that. And in this fic, Jonathan is either gay or bisexual. Because why would I write heterosexual vampires.

Dr. Swansea--or Edgar, as he had just asked Jonathan to call him--peered into Jonathan’s face. The regard was not the ordinary gaze of a man upon his conversation partner’s face, but the clinical scrutiny of examination. It traversed Jonathan’s eyes down to his mouth.

“I don’t mean to intrude, but....have you fed yet? Since you, ah, re-awakened?”

Jonathan looked away. He thought that, were he still alive, he would have blushed. As it was, he merely flexed his hands. He forced his mind away from the miserable memories the question evoked.

“I, ah--there were men who attacked me. I defended myself, and I....fed on them. I don’t dare do it again.”

Edgar’s brows lifted, eyes going wide behind his little glasses.

“Is that why you looked like such a fright when we met? But that was three days ago--do you mean to say you’ve fed just once in the last three days since being reborn? Gracious! I believe I should be impressed by your restraint. From what I’m given to understand, new vampires experience especially intense cravings.”

Jonathan eased his weight subtly from one foot to the other. He had cultivated a calm bedside manner through learning to suppress restlessness and sudden movements. But the forced stillness took concentration, and his frayed nerves made the temptation to jitter especially strong.

“Though I have no basis for comparison, I can say that in my case, at least, that is an accurate statement. The desire can be....overwhelming, at times.”

Jonathan didn’t mention that he could smell the blood so close below Edgar’s skin, see his heart beating below his clothes, and feel the strength of his educated mind and how resistant it would be to manipulation. Not that Jonathan would consider harming a colleague and a man so respected by his staff and peers. But the closeness of living flesh and pulsing arteries drew Jonathan’s attention like a moth to a flame.

“What does it feel like, the craving? If you don’t mind my asking, of course,” Edgar asked.

Ever the researcher, Jonathan thought. Having never tried to put it into words before, with everything being so very new, for several long moments he stood at a loss.

“It hurts,” Jonathan said at last. “Have you ever had a bad fever that lasted for days, where your whole skin aches and you’d give anything to make it stop? It is--it is like that, a little.” And it was, now he thought of it. It lacked some of the hypersensitivity of a fever. His clothes weren’t painful to wear, nor did it feel worse to be touched. But there was a pain all through the surface of him, as though the barrier between himself and something huge and dark were somehow damaged.

“It is especially bad in the mouth,” he added. “The teeth....retract, I think. I have palpated my own face and I can feel them, higher up near my sinuses. My teeth ache, all the time, my tongue aches, the roof of my mouth aches, and always in the back of my mind I know that if I just--if I could only--” he couldn’t make himself say it. “That I would feel so much better, right away. Or at least, my mind tells me I would. When I actually fed, the relief was only fleeting.”

Shaking himself out of his reflective reverie, Jonathan noticed that Edgar’s pulse was elevated and he was perspiring, little glimmers of moisture appearing at his hairline. The room was not warm, so it could not be the temperature. Jonathan forced himself to look away from Edgar, and particularly the skin of his neck. The awareness of it seemed to rub upon his mind regardless.

Out of the corner of his eye Jonathan saw Edgar rise from his partial seat at the edge of his desk and smile. Then he tipped his glasses forward to look at Jonathan above them.

“That sounds bally awful, Jonathan. So I have a proposal for you. But before I give voice to it, I must beg you to not to think me indelicate.”

Jonathan turned his head back toward the other man. He was forcibly reminded of Tom Watt’s demand that Jonathan not engage in any ‘funny business,’ as the Turquoise Turtle was a ‘respectable establishment.’ Jonathan still wasn’t sure what Tom had meant--perhaps he had thought Jonathan meant to threaten Edgar, or beg for money. Or perhaps Tom had even thought Jonathan was a street walker desperate to sell his services. Looking at Edgar’s expression now, Jonathan wondered if Tom’s request had more to do with what he’d thought of _Edgar’s_ character than Jonathan’s. What on God’s earth was Edgar going to propose?

“I....” Jonathan paused. The urge to twitch or pull away and thus betray his discomfort grew stronger. “I am not a judgmental man, though of course I have my limits. What is on your mind?”

“Why, the obvious solution! You need sustenance, and I have a great scientific curiosity. You may feed upon me.”

Jonathan’s eyes went wide and he took a step back before he could stop himself. “I....I beg your pardon, sir! You cannot possibly mean to sacrifice yourself simply because I am experiencing some discomfort!”

But Edgar only laughed, holding his arms wide. “Of course not! _Sacrifice_ myself, don’t be ridiculous. A feeding need not be to the death. It is my understanding that some of your kind have been known to enter into arrangements with willing mortals, who would be drained of no more than you might take from any donor for one of your transfusions.”

“I don’t--” Jonathan began to say and stopped himself: _I don’t want to hurt you._ “Is that even possible? How could you stop me? And isn’t this--wouldn’t the, er, condition be spread that way?”

Edgar thrust his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth from his heels to his toes. “Well, for the last concern--the short answer is that the type of vampire you are does not propagate that way. For you and those like you, vampirism is transmissible only through your own blood, not through your bite. There are breeds of vampire--you saw one in the tunnels, attacking poor Mister Hampton--which require only a bite to transmit their condition. But you are not one of them”

This statement did nothing to calm Jonathan, and indeed raised more questions than it answered. “Blood and saliva,” he whispered. “Like a plague.”

“The transformation only takes effect upon death anyway, and I have no plans of dying anytime soon,” Edgar stated, apparently calm at the prospect of contracting madness and suffering from Jonathan. Edgar leaned his head back, exposing his neck--whether as an active choice or simply by accident, Jonathan wasn’t sure. Edgar went on in Jonathan’s silence.

“As for your other concerns, ideally you would stop yourself. But if you couldn’t, then I believe I have already demonstrated that I am quite capable of holding you at bay with the judicious application of a crucifix. And you cannot mesmerize me. I have another vampire acquaintance who has told me I have quite a strong mind, and I think you are a bit....young, for that.” Despite this strange and possibly-insulting statement, Edgar gave a winning smile, his expression warm and easy and unafraid.

Jonathan ducked his chin, embarrassed. He had already been trying to resist thinking of Edgar in such a way. But now he understood why Edgar’s heart was beating so fast: the thought of being bitten, _fed_ upon, excited him. Perhaps it was merely scientific excitement, but something told Jonathan this was not the case. He wasn’t sure whether he should feel gratitude for the offer or concern for Edgar’s mental health if such an idea appealed to him.

Given that enticement, however, Jonathan felt even less certain he could trust Edgar’s honesty.

“ **Tell me** ,” he commanded, with the force of mind that came naturally now, “ **are you** **_really_ ** **at no risk if I feed upon you?** ”

“Of course not, I just said--” Edgar responded automatically, but then blinked, looked into Jonathan’s face, and laughed. “Oh, Jonathan! It is nice to know you are so concerned about my wellbeing, but honestly, using the Voice upon me over _this_ is a bit silly.”

At that Jonathan looked away. Edgar catching him at his strange new trick made Jonathan feel naked and mortified.

“No one else has noticed me doing it,” he offered, as though that somehow made it less offensive. “I just wish to feel certain of myself--and what I am capable of now. I need to know what I must be careful of.”

Edgar’s face softened. “That is understandable. But I am not your average man. Is that your only concern about my offer? That I will not be well afterward?”

“No, you are also my employer,” Jonathan replied, hating the shakiness of his voice. “It wouldn’t be ethical for us to have any sort of....unprofessional connection.”

He almost winced as the words left his mouth. That made it sound as if Edgar had offered sodomy rather than a simple blood donation for the purposes of sustenance.

But Edgar merely snorted again, unconcerned. “Well, if we are fussing about details of propriety, then I should not have hired a newborn vampire right out of a slum while he was covered in blood, either. That clearly hasn’t stopped me, though, and you seem to be doing well here so far. By the end of your first night you’d already been all around the neighborhood and met most of the patients and staff, so I hear.”

Jonathan couldn’t suppress a little chuckle at that. “Well--yes, that is true.”

Edgar laughed in return, posture loose and open. “There is no rush. My blood will still be here if you think it over for a while. In the meantime, go speak to Lady Ashbury as I’ve asked?”

“I will,” Jonathan agreed, and left the room at a studiously sedate pace. He didn’t look back, and he didn’t think about the sweet smell of Edgar’s body permeating the office.

**

Lady Ashbury turned out to be the woman who had rescued Jonathan from the rogue creature attacking Sean Hampton. But Lady Ashbury also refused to answer any of Jonathan’s questions until he helped her.

Which was how Jonathan found himself in the Whitechapel district, pursued by both feral vampires and men with guns prepared to kill him on sight.

Compared to him they were so slow. So warm. So....ready.

In combat, instinct took over, just as it had when the men attacked him after he woke in the mass grave. Jonathan bit down, viciously tearing into the living meat. Blood spurted into his mouth, so voluminous he could barely swallow quick enough. He drank until the fighting stopped, until the last man went limp in his arms and dropped to the ground.

And then Jonathan looked at the bodies and thought: _God, no. I left this behind on the Continent. I left this behind in the mass grave._

Yet even sated, even still drunk on blood with his mind singing a red chorus....when he found Nurse Crane and her patient, the blood still called to him. The blood was a siren upon whose rocks he wished to dash himself again and again. He restrained himself with both the Nurse and their patient, gritting his jaw till his teeth retracted and his vision returned to normal. But the fact that he had wanted anything from either of them but to provide appropriate care made him feel despicable.

When he left Whitechapel, he departed with a soothed body still sated with blood from the men, and a sick heart, knowing what he now was.

He returned to Lady Ashbury--and then stood frozen in horror as she dropped the wrist of the ill patient she had been sitting with for the last several days.

Hatred of what she’d done overtook Jonathan in a hot wave.

“How could you!” he cried, but she merely looked at him as if he were a fool, wiped her mouth neatly with a kerchief, and stood to face him. He could smell the blood on her breath, hear the renewed vigor of her pulse, and see the very last fading warmth from the corpse beside her. She was such a small, slender woman, but the density of her gaze galled him.

“How could I spare a dying man his final agonies?” she asked. He opened his mouth to deny her, but she went on. “How could I offer him that his blood might be of use to others? How could I, with his full consent, end his life in good company with no pain?”

“That is _not_ what you did!” Jonathan spat at her. He had wanted her to be _better_ than him, not just as animalistic and dirty and controlled by her own needs.

But Lady Ashbury only tilted her head to one side and blinked at him. “If you were dying alone in great pain, and a woman who’d sat at your bedside and wanted to know everything about you offered to send you off in peace so that your blood might do some good elsewhere, wouldn’t you accept her offer with gratitude? Infected as he was with the flu, his blood could not even have been taken for transfusion.”

“You think it does not _hurt_ to die that way?” Jonathan growled, remembering the hunters he’d killed. They’d screamed, their hands clawing at his clothes. But compared to him, they had been weak as children. They couldn’t fight him, not really. And compared to them, a dying man....!

“It does not,” she told Jonathan, “if you are gentle and have permission. It takes only the smallest nudge to the mind to keep their pain at bay.” She gave a huff of displeasure, a slow exhalation through her nose. “It is clear you already think yourself a monster, but I’ll thank you not to imagine we are all that way.”

Lady Ashbury regarded Jonathan in the dim light of the lamps. The wind blew in from the other tents, carrying a thick cloud of blood-smell over them both. Her nostrils flared at the same time his did.

“Walk with me,” she instructed, and turned away without waiting for a reply. A reflexive part of him wanted to protest that this was neither the time nor the district for a lady to be out of doors. Thankfully he managed to smother the ridiculous thought before it left his lips.

Jogging after her, he reached her side and waited for her to share whatever she had on her mind. When they were far enough away from the hospital gates and the tents there that they would not be overheard, she held out a hand to stop him. The heels of her shoes clicked on the cobblestones as she moved to look at him again.

“Now that we have some peace away from the noise and smell,” she sighed. “You’ve been feeding. On whom?”

“I, ah--” Jonathan stumbled. She had _killed_ that man--clearly she had, and that meant she was a murderer, surely? Preying upon the defenseless was a terrible sin in his mind. But as a doctor on the front lines, he had more than once administered lethal doses to spare patients a lingering and terrible death. Was what she had done any different?

Already wrong-footed and uncomfortable with this conversation, Jonathan babbled his reply. “I was--I went into Whitechapel district. A militant group who called themselves the Guard of Priwen attacked me. I’m afraid I--I killed several. And drained them.” Guilt pressed at him. “It is not the first time this has happened to me. There were others, when I first, ah, woke.”

She didn’t even blink at the revelation. “And you feel guilty because you defended yourself against unwarranted attack.”

He tried to look for disgust in her face, but her expression was as smooth as a basin of still water. Jonathan turned away, staring out into the misty darkness of the Thames. How could she be so calm?

“They’re dead,” he told her. That seemed explanation enough to him. “It was bad enough in the War, when I at least had the support of my fellows and my country and I didn’t gain anything from the deaths. This--”

“Is survival, my dear Doctor Reid,” she interrupted. “If someone wishes you dead and you stop them, it is not the same as killing for pleasure. Or even killing solely in order to feed. You need not flagellate yourself for it.”

“I think I must,” Jonathan disagreed, quietly. “I think one ought to remember the men one has destroyed, no matter the reason. They knew I was a vampire, and they thought me a danger to others. I cannot blame them for attacking me. They only wished to make London a better place--as I do.”

Her small hand found his bicep and squeezed it.

“An admirable sentiment. But do not do their work for them succumbing to guilt--and at least you fed.”

That comment brought to mind the discussion Jonathan had had with Edgar. Again Jonathan experienced the shifty discomfort he would have associated with blushing while alive, but now he felt as cool as ever.

“Edgar--Doctor Swansea--made an offer to me,” Jonathan began. Perhaps he was transgressing a boundary by discussing it with anyone else. It seemed like the sort of thing one ought to keep private. But Jonathan found he needed advice upon this, and even though he did not trust this woman--she had just killed someone, after all-- _any_ second opinion was better than just his own.

Lady Ashbury lifted her eyebrows at him, indicating he should continue.

“He offered to let me....feed upon him. In small quantities.”

Lady Ashbury’s face burst into a grin, and she laughed. “Oh is _that_ all? It is one of the oldest arrangements between humans and vampires, dear sir. The way you looked so put-out, I thought he must have offered something much more questionable than that.”

Jonathan merely blinked at her, suppressing the urge to look away or shuffle around. “So that sort of thing is....normal, then, for what we are?”

“Of course! You’re a doctor, so you must understand being of service to others. It is a little like that--he is offering you a service that will support your wellbeing.” This time she lifted a single eyebrow at him, her expression suggestive. “If being of service in this way also happens to be quite pleasurable, then so much the better for Edgar, yes?”

At this, Jonathan did raise a hand to his mouth and turn to the side, shocked by what she was implying. She couldn’t be suggesting....could she?

“I am surprised he did not offer to you first, then,” was all he could think to say.

She laughed at him again.

“Oh, he did. I turned him down. He was only interested because I am an Ekon, not in _me_ at all. And besides. I like my meals to be heartier than that. But you-- _you_ should take him up on it, unless the prospect is too transgressive for you. I think better that than to eat your attackers, hmm? Or do as I do, and drain the already dying.”

Her statements raised as many questions as they answered, but Jonathan didn’t feel equal to the asking of any of them.

“It would not--I could not feed upon my patients,” he said at last, injecting as much reproach into his tone as he could.

The Lady merely looked at him. “Do you think to shame me out of my habits, Jonathan? How very presumptuous of you.”

Being told he was presumptuous by a lady of good breeding was too much for him. He excused himself to make his rounds of the hospital.

But both the Lady’s words and Edgar’s echoed in his mind. And he thought of the men dying in his arms, his mouth upon their necks and their blood upon his tongue.


	2. Chapter 2

The sick smell of rotting meat filled the whole of the shelter’s basement, and Sean sat down to table with it. In a distant part of his mind not taken up by the charnel stench and sight of the place, Jonathan supposed it was no worse than a butcher’s back room. All dead things were meat in the end. And in a way, he could see Sean’s point; if the Lord had decided that there be so many dead, was it not better that their lives go toward some good purpose than for them to be a breeding ground for maggots in a mass grave? 

Jonathan remembered Lady Ashbury with the dying patient--but that patient had, if she could be believed, consented to be used in such a way. He had been willing that something of him might pass on to help another as part of his dying, even if he hadn’t known to exactly whom it would go.  _ These _ poor wretches, though--two partial bodies lay in a heap on a rough wooden table along the back wall. Their earthly forms had been cleaved asunder without so much as a by-your-leave. Would they have agreed to this? Didn’t their wishes deserve respect as well?

Jonathan’s body rejected the repulsive stink, the glisten of the candle-light on the cuts of human thigh and shoulder--and the desperate brightness of Sean’s eyes. 

Jonathan had seen the kind of faith one found in foxholes, a desperation to know that something gentler waited after death and brutality. He had come to his own faith that way. But this, with Sean--Jonathan had also seen zealots, those whose fervor covered a moral disease underneath. Something was being taken here in this secret place, and it was not Communion. 

“Give yourself over to God, Doctor,” Sean exhorted, eyes too wide and too fervid. “Expel your urges and kneel before the lord in praise!”

Oh, Jonathan wanted that. He wanted peace, and forgiveness, and absolution. He wanted to rid himself of the endless hunger. A part of him rose in response to Sean and his faith--but another part cringed away, as though Jonathan’s hand had brushed skin hot from infection. 

_ Being a skal is like a foreign body inside him, _ Jonathan thought.  _ He did not want this any more than I did. He cannot expel this unwelcome thing so he is burning up around it, no matter what he says about it being a blessing. _

Jonathan had cut into men to dig out shrapnel and bullets before. He had seen inflamed and oozing wounds fade into clean scars. 

Sean put a great deal of stock in Old Bridget’s words, so Jonathan started there. Explained what she had told him, about Skals craving Ekon blood--craving a sign that their makers cared about them, Jonathan thought, though he did not voice that aloud. After all, who did not wish to be loved by those who had made them? And Sean had been abandoned and violated twice over. 

What others had said about Sean returned to Jonathan then: that Sean had been abandoned at birth on church steps, and that a priest who had cared for him had also molested him. Despite that, his faith had remained strong. But now the horror had happened again, in a way; his body abused and spirit uncared-for by the poor half-crazed creature that had turned him. 

Someone needed to take responsibility. Someone who would not take advantage. 

But at the offer of Jonathan’s blood, Sean’s face pinched, brow wrinkling as he pulled the candle he held closer to his chest. 

“I--I’d rather not,” he protested. “It would be--extremely awkward!”

“Intimate, you mean,” Jonathan sighed. The way Sean flinched at the word proved Jonathan’s suspicion. But he would not lie to Sean, and he would not force. “Yes, I suppose it would be, in a way. Does that trouble you?”

Sean’s throat tensed as he swallowed, and his eyes went everywhere in the room before falling upon a crucifix. His gaze steadied there and he drew in a deep breath. 

“I have foresworn the flesh of the living,” he said. “I am this way because God has willed it, Dr. Reid. Who am I to go against His will?”

Tilting his head to the side, Jonathan regarded Sean, whose hand reached out to touch the rounded base of the crucifix. An intimacy that would never violate him, Jonathan thought, with a man who gave of himself, spirit and flesh. 

“Do you think it is God’s will that you suffer needlessly?” he asked, unsure how to convince Sean. “There is such suffering in the world, and a great deal of it is the due to the choices--the  _ sinfulness _ \--of men. But the choices and the faith of men can soften the world too. You know that better than most.” 

Sean shifted, and he looked over his shoulder at Jonathan, bleached eyes betraying his inner conflict. 

“You have done your best for a long time,” Jonathan continued. “I could help you. You give to others when they are in need--why should you not accept the same charity?”

Sean turned fully, taking a step closer to Jonathan. After a moment, he met Jonathan’s eyes. 

“Charity?” he murmured. “Is that what this is?”

Jonathan felt as though he were walking along the edge of a scalpel. Just a little too much pressure or too little caution and this would end in misery. 

“Are you worried I’m offering for selfish reasons?” he asked, trying to suss out what Sean was thinking. Sean shook his head, though, looking away with a pinched brow, and then a new thought occurred to Jonathan. “Oh--you are worried you will hurt or take advantage of  _ me!” _

Sean closed his eyes. “You hunger too. You know what it is to--desire, in this way. I can control myself with the dead. There is nothing there to excite or enthrall me.”

“I would stop you before you went too far,” Jonathan assured him, and was reminded of Edgar’s similar offer. “You do not need to worry that you would harm me, I promise. I have fought skals before. I know I could protect myself if I had to.”

“I do not wish to become something anyone needs to be protected against,” Sean confessed, and the terrible earnestness of his voice aroused Jonathan’s pity still further. 

“Then let me help you,” Jonathan repeated. “I am not afraid of you.”

“I couldn’t--not the neck,” Sean protested, but Jonathan had the sense that this was a last, token resistance, now. 

“My wrist would be simpler and less intrusive, yes,” Jonathan agreed. So he shucked his jacket, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling up the sleeve as Sean watched with big eyes. Jonathan held out his arm with a gentle smile. “Come. I’m ready.”

To Jonathan’s surprise, Sean knelt. Perhaps it was easier to receive this as if it were the Communion in truth, another aspect of his relationship with God rather than an entanglement with his fellow man. Sean leaned forward and Jonathan felt the gust of Sean’s exhalation on his forearm, Sean’s cool palm cupping the back of Jonathan’s hand. For the space of several heartbeats, Sean hesitated, reluctant, before his tongue touched the skin, warm and wet. His jaw opened and he paused again--and then with a compulsive twitch he bit down and released just as quickly. 

The pain of it took a second to reach Jonathan, as startling as Sean’s tentative bite had been. But it faded just as fast, a mere throb of sensation as Sean’s tongue pulled, nursing at the opening he’d made. 

A little groan escaped Sean, and then another. His grip tightened on Jonathan’s hand, breath coming hard enough to stir the hairs on Jonathan’s arm. The tip of Sean’s tongue swept right over and into the little hole, sending a new thrill of pain up Jonathan’s arm. Sean rocked, body leaning into the point of connection between them, lashes fluttering--

And then Jonathan stroked over Sean’s nape with his left hand, drawing Sean’s attention back outside of himself. Sean let go of his mouthful at once, fingertips flying to his lips as he pulled away, leaning back. 

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized, eyes wide again, but Jonathan merely smiled. 

“You did nothing wrong,” he told Sean. And indeed, while he felt a little dizzy, he felt calmer than ever, mind settling into quietude. 

It was a relief to know that it could be this way. This was nothing like what had happened to him or Sean: violence followed by abandonment. Instead, this was a gift Jonathan could make to a man he respected. 

With a flick of his will, Jonathan healed the wound so that only a tiny smear of blood remained to show what had happened. This time he held out both hands toward Sean. 

“Come on, stand up. How do you feel?”

“I don’t--I don’t know,” Sean answered. He looked....vulnerable, suddenly soft-eyed like the child he must have been at fifteen. “I thought--I thought it would be more terrible than that. And you, you’re all right?”

“You didn’t do what William did,” Jonathan told him. And in private, he thought:  _ I won’t do to anyone what my maker did to me. No one I touch will wake up terrified and alone among the dead. _


	3. Chapter 3

Jonathan returned to the hospital. When he arrived, Edgar found him quickly--and relayed the news that Jonathan’s mother and sister were holding a funeral for him later that very night.

“They published the obituary in the paper this morning. I’m sorry to be the bearer of ill tidings, but--I thought you needed to know.” Edgar’s eyes searched Jonathan’s face. “Do you not think there is any way you could return to them? Your sister came here, before I found you. She was looking for your body. I sent her to the morgue to search, but....obviously you were not there.”

The pain that surged through Jonathan’s chest at this stole his words for several long seconds. The ticking of the clock on Edgar’s desk marked them aloud.

“How could I explain this to them?” Jonathan cried at last. “It strained my credulity even when it was happening to me! And they are--they are already mourning me.”

But Edgar snorted as though this were very ridiculous. “Pish-tosh, my good man! They will believe whatever you tell them when they see you walking and talking. Just because McCullum can spot a vampire at fifty paces doesn’t mean the average person can.”

“My--my eyes,” Jonathan admitted. He tried not to feel self-conscious about them, and indeed most people didn’t seem to notice. But his family--they had known him so long, they would see. His sclera were red, and the irises a frosty bluish-white. They had used to be a dark grey. “There are so few medical conditions which change the pigmentation of the eyes like this, how could I possibly explain--”

This merely got him another scoff. “Now I am sorry I did not approach you sooner, if this is the sort of ridiculous nonsense you’ve been walking around with. You realize that you project a glamor, don’t you?” Jonathan stared. “The bleaching effect on the irises, the suffusion of the sclera with blood as the subject feeds--I can see them, yes, because I _want_ to see them. McCullum, who hates vampires so much, also wants to know when one is near him. But when most people look at you, they only see a man who appears very ill-rested. Even with me, when I forget myself or have a day when everything is simply too overwhelming, you manage a little of the illusion sometimes. You really are quite charismatic.”

“I--I don’t understand,” Jonathan admitted.

How could people _not_ see what was so plain when he looked in a mirror? He had wondered how Lady Ashbury looked so human, but he had theorized that perhaps that Ekons returned to a more human appearance with time. Now he had to wonder: was she able to control _his_ perceptions? Or did she really look that way?

“What do you mean when you say you, er ‘have a day’....?” Jonathan asked.

“Some strong Ekons possess the ability to manipulate or force others into actions they would not otherwise consent to,” Edgar told him. “But _any_ Ekon can convince mortals to do what they already want. And as most people do not wish to see monsters all around them, any Ekon wishing not to be noticed tends not to be.”

“Oh,” Jonathan breathed, extremely discomfited by this revelation. “I do not like the idea that I am able to sway you in that way. If I....” he trailed off.

Even after having given Sean what he had, something in Jonathan still shied away from the idea of taking Edgar up on his offer.

“If you what?” Edgar asked, and removed his glasses. He tucked one of the wire arms into the front of his waistcoat and let them hang there.

“If I were to--feed on you,” Jonathan gritted out, and felt even more uncomfortable when Edgar gave him a ready smile. “You said you’d be able to stop me. But if I can influence even you, which I clearly can--”

“My dear Jonathan,” Edgar smiled, looking quite amused. “You worry too much! Your excessive caution--and the restraint I have seen you demonstrating around the staff and patients--tells me everything I need to know. I mean, you are hardly the sort of man to steal a meat pie from a vendor just because you don’t fancy getting your coins out of your pocket, are you?”

“Of course not. But I am literally a different _species_ now! I do not know what I may be like if I bite someone and then am asked to stop!”

Edgar threw his arms wide, gesturing at himself. “And yet here you are, faced with hot-blooded temptation and you are instead arguing with me about your trustworthiness. Excuse me if I hardly feel threatened.”

At that, Jonathan couldn’t help but catch some of Edgar’s amusement at him. Jonathan let out a low laugh and conceded the point.

Perhaps sensing his victory at hand, Edgar leaned in close, eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Does this mean you’ve considered my offer, then? You’ll accept?”

Looking at him left Jonathan in no doubt about whether or not Edgar was consenting. Again his heart thumped fast and eager under his breastbone, face flushing with ardor.

“I am very tired tonight, it is almost dawn,” Jonathan hedged.

Planting his hands on his hips and staring hard, Edgar shook his head. “You are strong, Jonathan, but not so strong as to sway _me_ to do anything I don’t want for myself.”

“Have you ever--” Jonathan began to ask, self-restraint compromised by Edgar’s offer. But then Jonathan realized what he’d been about to ask and cut himself off. “Nevermind. A stupid notion.”

His thoughtless words had already piqued Edgar’s curiosity, though, and he lifted his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Well now I simply _must_ know.”

Part of Jonathan wanted to just walk away. He could just abandon this conversation as a bad job and try again later. It would be rude, of course, but better rude than overly trusting. After all, he still hardly knew Edgar. Edgar might secretly be capable of _anything_ under that friendly exterior, and Jonathan wouldn’t know.

So Jonathan regarded Edgar Swansea, considering the dangers of speaking frankly. He thought of Oswald and Newton. No matter what Oswald might say they would always have to worry about who might find out. _Oswald_ might not feel any shame, but other people were cruel.

Jonathan had known that his whole adult life since his best friend had been caught kissing another boy at twelve years old. Every other boy in the school besides Jonathan had ostracized the lad for the four months he remained until he’d convinced his family to transfer him elsewhere. For the crime of loyalty, Jonathan himself had fallen under suspicion for several more years.

After that, it hadn’t mattered to Jonathan what some of the other boys got up to in private--he didn’t feel able to risk being caught at it, or worse still, being perceived as though it meant something more to him than it did to any of the young men who went on to get married. It had been the same during the War. Many of the men had formed attachments, some of them even physical. But Jonathan hadn’t dared.

It wasn’t that Jonathan felt nothing for women, it was just that men had always caught his eye more. To have his employer now bluntly offering something Jonathan himself couldn’t help but find salacious....

With Sean, it had felt almost like an extension of Jonathan’s work as a doctor. But Jonathan already knew it would not be the same with Edgar.

“Have you ever been friends with any fairies?” Jonathan asked at last, bald and indelicate.

For a moment it was clear he’d caught Edgar off-guard. The man’s eyes widened and he sucked at his bottom lip as he pushed his hands into the pockets of his white coat. But then he sighed, seeming to come to some decision in himself.

“Of course I have, Jonathan. I think most men have, whether they know it or not. Why do you ask?”

Jonathan listened for heartbeats around them but there were no others. Just the two of them, alone.

“Because I am. That way, I mean.” How strange it felt to admit it! To let go of a secret he’d held so dear for so long.

There wasn’t time for Jonathan to feel relief or anxiety. Edgar only left him in suspense for about half a second before smiling again, this time easy and even warmer than before.

“Frightfully convenient of you, as it spares me the trouble of hiding the erection I will have if you feed on me. I was a little worried.” Edgar’s shoulders relaxed, posture softening. “One doesn’t like to spring that on a chap unawares, you know?”

The helpless giggle that escaped Jonathan at this embarrassed him, exactly the sort of effeminate affectation that Jonathan had been so careful to avoid developing. But for now, at least, he had no cause for worry.

“What were you planning to do about that if I said yes?” he asked, pressing a little at this newfound honesty to see if it would hold.

“Pretend it is a normal side-effect of feeding when it really is not,” Edgar grinned. But then his face sobered and he moved to stand closer to Jonathan, taking one of his hands. Edgar’s grip was so warm, and Jonathan’s skin thrilled at the touch. “Thank you for your honesty, Jonathan. I know it is not an easy thing to address.” Before Jonathan could think of any response to this, however, Edgar smiled again, squeezing the hand he held. “But really, did I not make my own interest plain enough? I rather thought I had.”

Jonathan leaned closer. The proximity felt good, and the way Edgar smelled--it frightened him a little, as Edgar was still his employer and a budding friend.

“You did. I am just a cautious man. So if I still need another day to decide....”

“Now you’re just being a tease,” Edgar complained, but there was no bite in it.

**

That morning Jonathan went to his bed thoughtful, turning over memories of Edgar and Sean and what it all meant. That night, he woke up certain.

He sought out Edgar right away, wishing to do this before he made his nightly rounds of the hospital. Edgar was just coming out of a surgery, scrubbing his hands in the sink with a tray of bloody tools beside him as nurses scurried back and forth.

The wafting red scent, clearly discernible even among all the smells of antiseptic and soap, made it easier to lean close to Edgar and murmur in his ear. “Would you meet me in your office? I have made up my mind, and I think it is a good idea.”

Jonathan felt rather than saw the way Edgar’s heart skipped a beat, pausing before it jumped to a faster pace. And Jonathan felt, too, the shuddering breath that Edgar let out, and the way his face suffused with blood.

“Of course, I--just let me--I’ll be just a minute.” His voice shook.

Jonathan turned away, knowing that it took some time to clean up and remove the various bits of protective garb one donned for surgery. He briefly observed Edgar from the doorway--and Edgar cast glances over at him, as well. Then Jonathan went back upstairs.

He had thought about where they would do this. He had considered his own bedroom, his own bed--but that was a little too prurient for Jonathan. It was one thing to allow one’s employer to offer a service in deference to one’s physical health--phrased that way, Jonathan could at least pretend this was appropriate, even despite their conversation last night. But it was another thing to literally take one’s employer to bed.

So Jonathan cleared the books and journals off of the _chaise longue_ in the corner of the room, stacking them neatly on one corner of Edgar’s desk. From the pocket of his jacket, he brought a small vial of alcohol and a set of bandages, for afterward. Then Jonathan pulled the curtains over the window (one never knew who might be looking in) and sat down to wait.

It wasn’t long before he heard Edgar jogging up the hallway. (Jogging, as though he could not wait. The thought sent a thrill through Jonathan which was decidedly unprofessional.) Edgar arrived a little out of breath, closing the door behind him--and locking it, too, with a firm thunk as the catch fell into place.

The use of the lock made all of this suddenly very real. Jonathan was about to do something secret and private with this man. Even if it was not inherently sexual, Edgar himself clearly viewed it that way. But Jonathan had spent so long looking at men, close to them in every way but the carnal, that even with the locked door and Edgar’s footsteps clear on the hardwood Jonathan couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“I’m not sure how one usually begins something like this,” Jonathan confessed.

Edgar seemed to have no such uncertainty. With a warm, pink-cheeked smile, he shucked his jacket at once and tossed it away near the desk, uncaring that it fell upon the floor. His cuffs were next, and not just one wrist but both. And rather than roll up the sleeves to give Jonathan access to his arms, as Jonathan had done with Sean, Edgar began instead upon his waistcoat. Soon that was shrugged off as well, dropped with just as little attention. The thud of the pocket-watch hitting the boards brought home what Edgar meant to do.

He didn’t want Jonathan feeding upon his wrist. He wanted it to be upon his throat, or perhaps even his chest. Somewhere personal, intimate.

Jonathan’s vision faded into blacks and greys, the only bright thing in the room Edgar’s fluttering heart, his glimmering vessels. Jonathan could see already how the blood moved through him, rushing and rushing--except for where it pooled, caught between Edgar’s legs. The glowing shape of it lay along one thigh.

Jonathan imagined putting his mouth there. _Biting._ He had seen men’s privates blown apart by shrapnel during the War, but this would not be like that. A quick slide of his fang over a big vein near the base and the redness would--

“Given the way you’re staring, I’m gladder than ever that we already discussed this yesterday,” Edgar remarked, and Jonathan startled. Colors rushed back into the world, ordinary vision snapping into place along with his shame.

He combed his fingers anxiously through his beard. He’d trimmed this morning, not wanting to appear scruffy. But it seemed he was making an uncouth impression anyway.

Edgar moved in close, looming over Jonathan. Even tall as he was, Jonathan’s face was so close to Edgar’s hips that he almost looked down again--until Edgar cupped a hand under his chin to make him look up.

“The neck is traditional, and that is my choice for this, but you must not leave a mark above the collar of my shirts,” he stated, bold now that he knew he would get what he wanted.

Edgar’s fingers pressed into Jonathan’s throat and chin as Jonathan nodded.

“You understand that you must _want_ this to be good for me?” Edgar asked, blinking slow and holding Jonathan’s gaze. A ripple of shock went through Jonathan at the words. “That is how the mental control works if you are not powerful enough to force it upon the unwilling. In wanting what I want, you can convince my mind to feel whatever you wish. Otherwise, this will be quite painful.”

Jonathan tried to offer some assurance but Edgar cut him off.

“I would do this even if you wished it to hurt. Pain is of little concern to me,” he said, tone low and private as though this alarming statement were a tender nothing. “I wish only to be prepared. Is my pleasure what you want?”

“I--” Jonathan swallowed, his dry throat sticking. “Yes, that is what I want. I have no wish to hurt you.”

The slow curl at the corners of Edgar’s lips and the soft flutter of his lashes were among the most lewd things Jonathan had ever seen.

“Good.”

Letting go of Jonathan’s face, Edgar pulled off his tie and then began on the buttons over his collarbones. His fingers darted from one button to the next, moving down his belly and revealing bare skin and curling chest hair as he went. This close, Jonathan could not only smell his cologne and soap but the subtle smell of his clean skin too.

Jonathan drew in a deep breath, letting it fill his sinuses.

Finished with the shirt, Edgar threw that down too. His nipples tightened in the cold. Their pebbled edges rose like the gooseflesh on Edgar’s arms.

It occurred to Jonathan then that there was no seemly way to do this. No way to lay Edgar out or sit beside him that would make this a mere exchange between colleagues. The thin barriers of Jonathan’s own garb and Edgar’s trousers did not make this any less intimate--and didn’t even shield Edgar’s erection from Jonathan’s eyes. The lamplight faded again into the strange blood-sight that had greeted Jonathan when he’d first awoken into this undeath. He traced the graceful lines of Edgar’s vessels up and down his form before settling on the stark path of the jugular.

“Are you sure?” Jonathan asked. He had killed men this way. The tearing of their flesh against his teeth and the ecstatic flood of their life into him was still fresh in his mind.

“You have no idea how sure I am,” Edgar replied. As if to prove his point, he set a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder and straddled him upon the couch, bringing the sparkling warmth of his body close before wrapping his arms around Jonathan’s shoulders. Jonathan’s hands came up around him automatically, wrapping along his waist.

The skin was so soft. Yielding and supple and alive. Jonathan couldn’t see Edgar’s eyes anymore, just the dark spaces where they lay. But Jonathan could see the closeness of Edgar’s blood to the surface of his lips, the shapes of his arteries like the stretching branches of a tree in the wind.

Edgar said something, the sound a muffled murmur as though he spoke through liquid. Jonathan pulled him closer, settling their bodies together so that the firm line of Edgar’s erection pushed into Jonathan’s belly. It was natural to tilt his face upward, open his mouth, and lay it upon the vein waiting for him at the base of Edgar’s neck.

Edgar parted for him like butter. The softest touch to that vein and it opened, drowning Jonathan’s tongue in the taste of him. Rich and thick, he swallowed and swallowed, throat working--and Edgar clutched at Jonathan’s coat, fingers digging into the fine wool as he filled Jonathan up. Edgar’s spine flexed, hips rolling, breath hot against Jonathan’s ear.

Jonathan pulled upon him, working his mouthful. In the back of his mind, he knew he had to stop soon, but he felt that he would know when the moment came. The seconds stretched around their movements, dilated wide to fit the subtle shifting of their muscles--

Edgar pulsed, heart throbbing and desperate as all of him shivered in Jonathan’s arms, and Jonathan knew it was time.

Pulling away felt terribly wrong. Jonathan wanted to stay close, sunk into Edgar and warm with his juices, but he forced himself to stop, withdrawing to lick over the wound.

Luminous trickles ran down over Edgar’s chest and shoulder. Panicked, Jonathan fumbled for the bandages, finding a thick pad of gauze and pressing it against the site even as he panted against Edgar’s throat and wanted to follow the bright spillage with his lips.

“Oh, _oh_ \--!” Edgar whimpered. “Ohhh--”

Blinking till his eyes remembered how to see more than one color, Jonathan looked up at the other man, surveying his face. A frantic flush darkened Edgar’s cheeks. Sweat speckled his brow and face, eyes closed. He hung heavy in Jonathan’s left arm, grip upon his clothes now lax.

“Edgar,” Jonathan said, worried now that he had gone too far. “Edgar, are you--”

Another shiver went through the man and a low groan escaped him. Which was when Jonathan realized it wasn’t just blood that lay wet between them--to his elevated senses, the smell of semen cut clear through everything else.

“My God,” Edgar husked out. “You must have really wanted me not to suffer.”

Potent embarrassment kept Jonathan from saying anything ridiculous to this. He pressed harder on the punctures even though he could already tell Edgar was clotting.

He hadn’t been imagining anything like this. Or at least, he hadn’t _thought_ he was. He had known this would be unavoidably sexual, thanks both to Edgar’s interest and his own, but not....he hadn’t _meant_ to make Edgar go this far, surely?

Edgar wrapped his damp, shaking hands around Jonathan’s face and kissed him. Somehow, even after everything else, it came as a surprise.

Years had passed since Jonathan had last kissed anyone. He’d had a sweetheart before the War, a woman who toyed with the idea of waiting for him. In the end she had decided against it and he had let her go. But he remembered the lipstick taste of her. Back then, she had been the one to leave _him_  marked with red.

Edgar’s tongue swept into Jonathan’s mouth, stroking against his teeth and tracing up one fang. At this Jonathan jumped, the sensation oversensitive and shocking. The fangs retracted without him knowing how, pulling up and away from the probing touch. Rather like how one’s hips might flinch away from contact immediately after climax, he thought.

“I can taste myself in your mouth,” Edgar purred. “Now what I can do for you? The literature says that some vampires can achieve erection, or there is always the prostate--”

“Have mercy,” Jonathan begged, ducking his head to hide against Edgar’s chest. “I am not--I don’t think I’m ready for that. I don’t even know if I can.”

“Have you really not tried?” Edgar asked, baffled. His thumb tucked into Jonathan’s shirt-collar, perhaps echoing Jonathan’s own continued grip on him in the same place. “It would be one of the first things it would occur to me to test. No one knows if vampires of any sex are still capable of reproducing sexually. No one has ever taken slides of vampire semen, or indeed confirmed that they can produce it, except via the most apocryphal of accounts. Think of the science we can do!”

“I am perhaps a little old-fashioned,” Jonathan begged. “Perhaps at some point we might--er, that is, not that I presume that you would wish to--”

“Jonathan,” Edgar laughed, all mirth even though he still sat heavy and slumped on Jonathan’s lap. He nuzzled into Jonathan’s hair. “I would let you sodomize me purely on the basis of your academic rigor and contribution to medical science. The fact that you are an exceptionally handsome specimen of a species I have long wished to study only increases your appeal. If you doubt anything, it must be something other than my interest.”

Well then. That was very much that.

“I don’t know how, anymore,” Jonathan confessed. “I no longer wake up erect after sleep. I don’t think I have achieved tumescence a single time since I died.”

For some reason this earned him another kiss. This one lingered, their mouths sticking together when Edgar withdrew.

“In your own time, then. It will be several weeks before I am ready to be fed upon again, as I think you took rather more than a pint. I’m quite dizzy! Though perhaps that is from the pleasure as much as anything else.” Pressing his own hand over the gauze, Edgar stood on wobbling legs, only to grimace and shift his hips. Cooling semen was doubtless not pleasant to have in one's undergarments. “It is a good thing I keep spare clothes in my office in case of mishaps during surgery.”

At this Jonathan came to his senses. He stood too, hastening to finish bandaging and disinfecting the bite. It had sealed up admirably.

Within a few minutes, clad in new trousers and securely wrapped underneath his shirt, Edgar looked as though nothing had happened. A slight pallor to his cheeks was the only sign.

Well, that and his lingering gaze upon Jonathan. His expression communicated that he wished to eat Jonathan alive.

“I have two surgeries tonight and then letters I must write,” he said. “But if after your own rounds you find yourself wishing to experiment--you know where to find me.”

With that Edgar smiled and left the office.

Jonathan sat for a long time, considering the options. All of them made him mortified. All of them appealed. And best of all was how little ambiguity there was--even in his worst moments of anxiety, Jonathan could not doubt Edgar’s willingness. 

Then Jonathan got up and went into the night. In a hospital there was always more work to do. The anticipation of seeing Edgar again in the morning would hold him through the shift. 

**Author's Note:**

> I *wanted* to write this story through the end of the events of the game and past it, and thus to include scenes with McCullum. But due to the time constraints of this exchange, I settled for just covering some scenes between Jonathan and Edgar, with a brief interlude to show my take on how things went down with Sean. In my headcanon for how things go after this fic, Jonathan doesn't turn Geoffrey and does turn Edgar. Jonathan and Geoffrey become reluctant allies and then lovers, and years down the line Geoffrey asks Jonathan to turn him.


End file.
